


Terroir

by ladyofrosefire



Series: Reserve [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: D/s, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Kneeling, Masturbation, May/December Relationship, Service Submission, Sex Toys, Subspace, crawling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 13:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20408776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Leylas calls Essek to her chambers for her convenience. It makes more sense if you've read Vintage.





	Terroir

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to sparxwrites and damoselmaledisant for beta reading.

Leylas sends a message to Essek at his den, sealed and stamped with her ring. It leaves little doubt as to why she wants him. If it, or the arrangement it details, became public knowledge, she is sure that some of the less discreet members of her court would take it upon themselves to comment. But so long as she does not _actually _take this pretty young thing as a consort, and so long as neither he nor Den Thelyss reach too obviously above themselves, she can continue to enjoy her Shadowhand’s… loyalty. 

He arrives swiftly, dressed in a set of ornate robes and nearly vibrating with excitement. This time, she has summoned him to her private chambers. 

Leylas sits on a low couch, her skirts arranged around her. He steps into the room, and she smiles as he bows deeply, head tilting a few degrees to one side. She lets him remain like that while she waves away the servant who had admitted him. The door clicks shut. Instantly, the wards that protect her room fall into place, stopping all sound from both sides. 

“Essek,” she greets him. 

He straights slowly. “My Queen. How may I serve you?”

“You’re learning.” She rewards him with a smile. “Undress. Slowly.”

Essek’s a pretty thing, and she wants to watch. She tracks the motions of his hands as he unclasps his robes. He shrugs them off, folds them, and then reaches toward a nearby chair. At her nod, he drapes the robe over its back. Then he unfastens his shirt from its high collar to where the buttons stop halfway down his chest. He pauses, then, eyes flicking up to meet hers before he untucks his shirt and pulls it over his head. 

Again, he hesitates. 

“Continue, princeling.”

His teeth sink into his lower lip. “Yes, my Queen.” 

Nimble fingers fumble on his belt buckle until it comes free. He pauses to toe out of his boots before pushing his pants down his legs. With no small amount of satisfaction, she notes that his feet remain planted on her floor. Still, she gives no sign of it as she directs a meaningful glance at his smallclothes. That draws a flush from him. But, dutifully, he removes them, as well, and sets them on the chair with the rest of his clothes. 

“Turn around.”

The flush spills down his neck as he turns for her, slowly, his hands by his sides. She considers him—his straight shoulders, his fine-fingered hands, his pert ass, and the shape of his stiffening cock. When he faces her again, she gestures with one hand, and he sinks to his knees on her carpet.

“Good,” Leylas lets the praise sink in before she continues. “If at any point you need to stop, you need only say. I will not strike you. If you consent to stay, you will leave with your body, your mind, and your reputation unharmed. I desire your submission, not to see you broken.”

Essek swallows hard. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“Is there any request you wish to make? Think carefully.”

He does. Leylas lets the silence hang while Essek considers. Then he shakes his head. “No, my Queen.”

“Very well. In that case, I would like you to seek permission before speaking unless it concerns your wellbeing. Nod if you understand.”

He does. She looks him over again, admiring, considering. Then she flicks her fingers toward a stack of papers. It would be easy for her to get up and fetch them herself, or to wave them over with magic. But the warmth that curls low in her stomach as Essek collects the documents and crosses to her with his head bowed offers enough cause to watch on its own. 

She takes the papers. Then she takes one of the pillows from her couch and sets it on the floor in front of her. “Kneel.”

Essek sinks down, and she runs the fingers of her free hand absently through his hair. He makes a soft sound at that, startling beneath her touch. A moment later, he relaxes into it. When she glances down, she finds him sneaking looks at her. She presses on the back of his neck until he bows his head and then resumes her petting. 

None of the documents she has left are long or particularly important, she made sure of that, but she gives it as much of her attention as she can. And all the while, she keeps stroking Essek’s hair. The tension bleeds away under her fingers a little at a time. He leans into her touch. It takes him a moment, but he stops trying to look around. With a sigh, he settles. Leylas lets him remain like that until she reaches the end of the document. She conjures a mage hand to roll up the parchment and return it to its case. Then she tips Essek’s face up with a cupped hand beneath his chin. He blinks, his gaze coming to focus on her face. It’s understandable. This is the first time, in all likelihood, that he has tried something like this. 

“That’s much better.” She considers for a moment before gesturing to a crystal decanter and glass sitting on the table. “Pour for me.”

With the table so close, there is no reason for him to rise. He turns toward it. Essek’s hands shake at first, and he does not entirely muffle his sound of irritation. Leylas rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hush, princeling. Breathe.” 

Essek does, his shoulders dropping as he exhales, and then reaches for the decanter again. The wine splashes against the crystal, fragrant and a purple so dark it is almost black. He offers it to her, and she takes it, fingers brushing deliberately across his. The flavor blooms across her tongue. As she drinks, his eyes remain fixed on her face. Leylas allows herself a soft laugh and a second sip of her wine before handing the glass back to Essek. Dutifully, he holds it for her. 

Leylas turns back to her reading. The words register, although she keeps some of her attention on Essek, in case his arms begin to tremble. He keeps his face turned up to hers. Again, she plucks the wine from his grasp and drinks. She finishes the document, sets it aside, and takes another sip from her glass. 

Then she reaches out to cup Essek’s chin. “Drink,” she commands. She sets the cup against his lips and tips it up. 

He opens his mouth for her, takes the small sip she allows him. His throat moves beneath her fingers as he swallows. 

“Do you like it?” she asks. She barely lowers the cup from his lips. 

“Yes, my Queen. Thank you.” He gazes up at her full of confused devotion, his cock half-hard against his thigh. 

Again, Leylas tips the cup up to his mouth, and again, he drinks. The wine leaves his mouth stained darker than if she had been kissing him. She takes it away and rubs her thumb back and forth over his lower lip. Then she presses the glass back into his hands. She has one more piece of paperwork to go through. 

She reads it, skims it, really, occasionally taking sips of wine. When she has finished, the glass is still a third full. Again, she sets it to Essek’s mouth. This time, she runs her fingers through his hair as he drinks a little at a time, his eyes going heavy-lidded. After, she sets the cup aside. She cups his cheek, and Essek tips his head into her hand with a sigh. 

“Good boy,” she coos as he presses kisses to her palm. “How do you feel?”

“I’m well, my Queen.”

She had kept him off his calves—the height of the couch was such that to hold the cup at the right level, he had to rise onto his knees and remain there. Now, she eases him down so that he rests on his heels. At a tilt of her head, he replaces the empty glass on its tray. She resettles and swings her legs down off her couch. Then she tugs up the trailing skirts of that day’s gown. Beneath it, she wears a pair of embroidered white boots, laced up from her heel to the back of her knee. She sets both on Essek’s knees. 

“Take them off.”

His breath hitches. How long has he spent wondering whether she planned to touch him or not? Or to let him touch her. He starts on her right boot, teasing out the knot in the laces before slowly and carefully pulling them free of the eyelets. He draws her boot off as gently as he can before moving on to the other. This time, he almost pauses, almost leans toward her knee, before he catches himself. Then he clears his throat and directs his gaze toward the carpet. Leylas passes her fingers through his hair again. Slowly, she stands. 

“Stay by my side—and crawl,” she commands before starting toward the door to her inner chambers. _ Heel_, she thinks but does not say. There is no point in injuring the princeling’s pride quite that much. Not without warming him to the idea. He might balk, and she has only just begun to bend him to her use. 

Essek follows readily enough. Smoothly, he folds forward, even as his face heats. But he follows just at her heel like a well-trained pet, his eyes downcast. Leylas passes first through the doors. 

Her apartments have three layers. The study and sitting room, where she entertains her most valued court members, is more a personal than a public space, but comfortable, and less overtly showy than the throne room. Then there is this layer, her dressing room with the closets and cases that hold her armor and jewelry. Her bedroom lies behind a door hidden by thick, plum velvet.

Essek stills as he catches sight of the full-length mirror on the wall, and their reflections in it. She gives him a moment to take it in—her in her ceremonial robes, diamond stars fixed in her hair, him naked and half-hard at her feet. Then she reaches down and turns his face toward her. Her fingers curl through his hair and Essek sighs. 

“You’ve done well so far, princeling,” she murmurs, “but your attention remains on _me_. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, my Queen,” he rasps. Then he clears his throat. “May I speak?”

“Go on.”

He pauses, tongue sliding over wine-stained lips. His gaze darts away and back before he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

“What an excellent question…” She slips two of her fingers into his mouth, and Essek laves at them, part obedience and part, she gathers, to steady himself. “You can help me undress. Wait right where you are. When I want you, I will tell you.”

He nods, a low groan vibrating past her fingers before she withdraws them. His gaze remains fixed on her as she moves to the dressing table by the full-length mirror. 

The diamond stars go first. She sets them one by one in their case, each nestled in a little hollow in the velvet, before moving on to her earrings. These go in a separate compartment of the same box. Her eyes flick to the mirror as Essek shifts on his knees. Next, she unclasps the fine chain of diamonds from around her neck. The bracelets, the rings on her fingers. She divests herself of her jewelry one piece at a time without hurry or fanfare. Then she raises a hand and beckons with one finger. 

Immediately, Essek folds forward and crawls to her, eyes fixed on her reflection. 

“You’ve been patient,” she observes as she holds out her arm for him to undo the cuffs of her dress. “You may speak, princeling.”

“Thank you, my Queen.” He inhales, holds the breath, and then lets it rush out again. 

She smiles to herself. Controlling that silver tongue will not be a _ quick _process, but she has time, and Essek is clever. He says nothing as he undoes the buttons on her sleeves, though he sighs in contentment as she runs her fingers through his hair and along the line of his jaw. 

When he’s done, Leylas turns her back to him. “Undo the top three buttons, and unlace my sash.”

He has to stand to do it, and he remains wisely at arm’s length as he works the small jet buttons free of their loops. He pulls the sash away, holding the stiffened silk carefully. 

“Where do you want this, my Queen?”

She considers whisking it from his hands with a spell, but he may as well be useful. Leylas points him to the appropriate chest and watches as he lays it neatly inside with its fellows. Then she lets him return to her on his hands and knees. She strokes his hair again, cups his chin in her hand for a moment, and then rises from her chair. 

“Close your eyes, and keep them closed.”

Essek hesitates. 

“I am not going to touch you or hurt you. Close your eyes.” 

His shoulders drop. “Thank you. Of course, my Queen. ” And then he does as she has ordered. A little furrow forms between his brows. 

Leylas shrugs out of her dress and hangs it up. Her shift follows, tossed into the basket of clothes to be laundered, along with her stockings, breastband, and smallclothes. Essek’s eyes remain closed even as he shifts at the rustle of her skirts. Leylas glances toward him again as she opens the closet that holds her robes. She selects one in dusty pink silk and pulls it on. Only once she has the belt tied does she turn toward him again.

“You may open your eyes.” 

He does, blinking in the lantern-light. His gaze roves over her and the way the silk clings to her curves before coming to rest on her face. A moment later, he lowers his head and fixes his eyes on the carpet. He is, she notices, no softer than he was when they entered the room. Is it the waiting, or is it the service? She hopes it’s both. 

“Come to me, princeling,” Leylas coaxes. She brushes aside the curtain over her bedroom door and turns the silver handle. 

She waits until he falls in at her heel again before stepping through the door. His knees sink into the thick carpet. They will be scuffed by the time they finish here. She thinks of him back in his room, tending to the abrasions, and remembering how he got them, and smiles to herself as she settles onto the edge of her bed. 

“Bring me the box on the table,” she commands, tilting her head in its direction. 

Essek obeys, and she takes a moment to appreciate the shape of him. She waves him to his feet once he has the box since the appeal of keeping him on his knees is momentarily outweighed by the issue of having him carry the box back to her. Slowly, he approaches. His gaze keeps moving from the latched and lacquered box in his hands to her face. 

When he reaches her, he settles back onto his knees and offers it up to her. “May I ask?”

“That depends.” She opens the box without taking it out of his hands. “Are you asking if this is for you?”

He ducks his head. “I understand, your majesty.”

“Good.” Leylas taps him on the cheek. Then she lifts the first item from the box. 

She curated these items before he arrived. In over a thousand years, she has had cause to acquire many such things, all suited for different bodies. The first is a slim curve of metal, enchanted, with a flat, round head. She catches the bob of Essek’s throat from the corner of her eye. Smiling, Leylas sets it aside. It’s a lovely toy, but there are others better suited to her desires for that evening. She moves onto the next. This one is a twist of clear glass, meant to corkscrew in and out. Of course, letting another person steer _that _seems foolish. Leylas still pretends to consider it while Essek waits and watches, and his cock stiffens further. She discards a short, thick one, and a long rod with a fat bulb on one end, although the latter makes her hesitate. So _that’s _what she wants this time. It makes her decision easy. Leylas selects something mostly cock-shaped, long and thin, with polished bumps covering its length and a spiral circling the head. It has a short handle, which she offers to Essek. 

“Take the bottle from the box, too.” 

He fumbles to obey, the glass and metal of her toys knocking together as he sets the little chest down. He wets the glass with a slow stream of the slick from the bottle. 

Satisfied, Leylas lies back. Her legs fall lazily open, and she brushes the sides of her robe out of the way. 

“May I, my Queen?” he asks, a rasp in his voice. 

“You may. Go slowly.”

She gasps softly as he guides the head of the toy into her. The spiral rubs against her walls and the bumps behind it follow as it slides in. Leylas lets out a shuddering breath. She has been waiting for this since she put him on his knees, since she set the wine glass against his lips, since she sent the note summoning him to her chambers.

Leylas reaches down to card her fingers through Essek’s hair. “Angle it up a little more.”

He does, and the next thrust drags the bumps and ridges over that bright spot. She gasps, sighs, and spreads her legs a little wider. 

He keeps the same, slow pace, almost massaging. The sound of his breath reaches her. It’s rougher, shallower. She feels the brush of it against her thighs. It’s easy to relax into it, to let the slow, coaxing pleasure of it suffuse her limbs and curl around her spine. She props herself up to watch. Essek kneels before her, long fingers curled around the toy’s handle, mouth slightly open and brow furrowed as he rocks it inside her. At her movement, his gaze flicks up to hers. Heat floods across his face, down his neck, and he groans before he can stop himself. His cock stands hard, smearing wet against his stomach. She gives a low laugh and brings a hand down to rub lazy circles around her clit. Essek’s gaze locks on her fingers. His tongue sweeps across his lower lip. 

“Are you enjoying yourself, princeling?” she asks, as though she does not know already.

To his credit, his rhythm does not falter. “Yes, my queen. It’s—a privilege. Does this please you?”

“If it weren’t, you would know.”

That makes him shiver. It makes sense; it’s easier to know one is doing well when there’s the possibility of doing poorly. She tugs at his hair, and he bites back another sound. 

“You are much prettier than most of my toys,” she observes, drawing his head back. He shudders, and Leylas smiles. “Do you like the sound of that, being my toy? My plaything?”

His mouth opens, but the only sound to come out is rough and wordless. 

“You would be something to take out and use when I saw fit. A _ treasured _toy, of course, but my tool, my—” she laughs, “my _hand_. Harder, now, princeling.”

He obliges, and Leylas arches her back. She keeps toying with her clit. There is no need to come right away, not when she can have him here for as long as she wants. He could turn to magic when his hand is too tired to hold the toy for her anymore. She gasps, clenching on the knobbed glass. When she looks down again, she finds Essek’s fingers wet from her cunt.

“I would have you. Never your cock, not when I have something that cannot go soft too soon. But your mouth. Your fingers, if you were _ very _ good.” 

“_Please_,” he breathes. 

“Please?” She tightens her grip on his hair until his eyes water. “No, do not stop. Please _ what_, princeling?”

His breathing stutters, but he keeps the toy moving in her. “—nothing, my queen. Only let me serve you.”

She holds him for a moment longer, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the naked wanting in his eyes, his leaking cock. Then Leylas smooths his hair down and lies back. 

“Keep going.”

Her fingers move with more purpose, nudging up the hood of her clit. Her thighs quiver as she grows closer to climax. She holds off only long enough to let it build, and then rides it and the glass cock until she comes down again. Her fingers drift away. 

Essek, clever thing that he is, does not stop. 

“Deeper,” she commands. 

She’s soaked, now, relaxed from pleasure and heat, and she takes the toy in a long, wet slide. The sound of it as it pumps in and out of her fills the room under the noise of her breathing. She bears down on it, tightens around its length, and a low moan rolls up from her chest. Again, her fingers dance over her clit, lightly at first. The pleasure as it builds is sharp, hot, and demanding, singing along her nerves. She breathes through it. Little by little, she quickens the pace of her fingers against her clit. The coil goes tight. She holds it at bay for a little longer, until her whole body tenses with it. Her hips stutter. When she comes again, it’s in long, shuddering waves. She drops her hand to the sheets and basks in the aftershocks before nudging Essek away with one knee. 

“Enough.” 

Gently, she draws the toy free, sucking in a breath as its bumps and ridges drag against her. Then she pushes herself upright. A fine sheen of sweat covers the back of her neck and has gathered between her breasts. Regardless, she leaves the robe in place. 

Essek is still at her feet, still hard, still waiting. He tries to gather himself, although it does him very little good. Both hands curl and uncurl on top of his thighs. 

Leylas smiles down at him. “Do you want to touch yourself, princeling?”

He draws in a shuddering breath. “Would it please you, my Queen?”

“It would, this time.” At least, it would do him good. And he has earned it. She draws her legs up onto the bed and stretches out on her side. Then she gives him an expectant look. “Go on.”

Essek pauses. Then he sets his shoulders and curls a hand around his cock. He goes slowly at first, so obviously trying to put on a show. If he wants to make himself wait, she will let him. 

“Good boy,” she croons. “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Their gazes meet. He has a perfectly lovely cock, nothing obscene, but well-formed. His expression holds far more interest to her, and it’s that she watches as he fucks his fist—the shape his mouth makes, the flush on his cheeks, the way he fights to keep his eyes open as he draws close. He does close them as he spills over his fingers. And after, he slumps, the last traces of that careful grace forgotten, artifice stripped away. 

Leylas waits until he raises his head to vanish the mess with a wave of her hand. Then she holds out her hand. He comes to her, leaning his head against the edge of the mattress.

“Well done,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair. “What a lovely thing you are.” 

Silence falls, and Leylas watches as he settles and, little by little, begins to come back to himself. The posture comes first, spine straightening, shoulders coming back to their disciplined line. Then his gaze begins to wander—mostly to her, still, but noting details in the room at large. Finally, he shifts and stretches, taking his weight off his calves. It’s then that she sits up. Essek remains on his knees, head dutifully bowed, until she lifts it with a finger beneath his chin.

“Did I serve you well, my Queen?” he asks. 

There is none of the hesitation that was evident when he first came to her rooms, although some of the calculation has returned. Good. She would hate to have broken him. She needs a spymaster more than she needs someone to hold her favorite toys for her. 

“You did.” Leylas lazily waves him to his feet. “Dress and go.”

He has had his reward already. 

Essek rises slowly. He’s young enough that he does not need to wince as he straightens his knees. Both are scuffed from crawling, and she smiles at the sight of those marks on him, the only ones she has given him. Then he bows deeply. It takes skill to manage that gesture while naked without appearing ridiculous, but he does it. It’s no less than she expects; he is her Shadowhand, after all. 

“My queen,” he straightens again, a smile touching his mouth. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“You are most welcome.”

With that, he walks from her room.

Leylas waits until she has heard each door close in succession before rising and making her way to the sunken pool that adjoins her bedroom and settling in for a long, luxurious soak. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at Ask-Ladyofrosefire, as always. 
> 
> The author thrives on comments— and emoji count. 🖤💜🖤


End file.
